


Stay Now

by Mackem



Series: Imaginary Advent Calendar 2012 [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Elves, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Porn, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:49:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/pseuds/Mackem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Stiles face down some elves, which were nothing like they expected. And it's totally not fair that werewolves heal and humans don't even when they've both been heroes, so Scott tries to rub it all better for Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay Now

**Author's Note:**

> Every year, I write what I call my Imaginary Advent Calendar, where each day until December 25th I open another day of an advent calendar that doesn’t exist and write what I picture various people or characters in different shows/fandoms/books in a holidays context. This year I’ve challenged myself to write a ficlet for every day. See Vicky panic! They’ll be in various different fandoms and pairings, and won’t be particularly long (except the ones that eat my brain). Enjoy! X!
> 
> The elves in this story are based heavily on the elves of Lords and Ladies, by Terry Pratchett. Elves count as festive. Somehow. I swear. I apologise for the title. East 17 came to mind. How could I not?

They first cotton on to something being up when the blizzard hits Beacon Hills, and sticks around for an entire week.

The weather reports blather on about freak storms and strange areas of low and high pressure, while everybody else ignores them in the face of the sudden desire to build snowmen and go skating on the lake and to throw snowballs at Mr Harris without being spotted. It’s a freaking winter wonderland.

But when people start getting hurt, the mood sobers. It's when a toddler vanishes that they realise something terrible is going on.

Stiles had laughed in disbelief at the end result of his research. Elves. _Elves_ , for god's sake? The cheerful little dudes with the jingly bells and candycanes and making toys for Santa?

A bit more reading turns up stories from before fairytales were Disney-fied. Tales of the elves of old are decidedly more brutal than Stiles expected; every source he finds is laced heavily with reports of child snatching, or torturing people for fun, or leading hunts where the prey ran on two legs and could plead for their life. The elves bring winter with them, he reads; snow and ice and death.

He tells Scott what he’s found as soon as he is absolutely sure that he’s right. With a kid’s life at stake, he knows they cannot afford to make a mistake or rush in unprepared. And the missing child is basically all he can think about; he had been taking his dad lunch at the station when the frantic mother had been brought in, desperately begging for help.

He had also managed to get a peek at the case file when his dad brought it home. What stands out is a photo of the boy’s unsteady footprints in the snow of the forest floor, and of where they vanish into nothing in the middle of a clearing. His mother had said through her tears that he was barely able to walk five steps on his own without tumbling over; in the photograph there are no footprints beyond his own, no signs of him falling in the snow, and his footprints just stop. Nothing leads to them, nothing leads away from them. His dad is stumped. Stiles remembers reading that elves leave no trace when they move.

More furious research reveals that they have a weakness against iron; that it mutes their powers and hurts them where other materials would not leave a scratch. He and Scott feel only _slightly_ guilty when they vandalize somebody’s wrought iron railings in the spirit of crafting makeshift weapons. 

Stiles also finds a chant that’s meant to immobilise elves, pinning them in place despite their often-mentioned strength and speed. He memorises it, even though his understanding of Old English is practically non-existent, and with a determined look on their faces, elf-hunting they go. They may not leave tracks but Scott is confident he can stalk them by scent, and Stiles trusts him completely.

When they return, hours later, they count themselves as technically victorious but still completely traumatised. 

Once they found out the jolly, green-clad little people they had imagined were nothing more than lies, both had pictured something closer to Buddy the elf. They had not pictured a pair of twisted, snarling creatures, smaller than humans only because they are crouching on all fours, their limbs slim and seemingly frail. 

They really want a peaceful way to resolve this, and tell the elves as much with their iron bars held defensively. “Just give us the boy back,” Stiles says, forcing the tremor out of his voice as he stares at them, trying to take in as many details as he can. They are dressed in ragged furs and leather, their skin pale and filthy, an animal stink rising from them in the cold air as they grin at Scott and Stiles with glittering eyes. “That’s all we want, okay?”

“Wherever you’ve put him, just bring him back,” Scott adds, his voice low and soothing. “Is he safe?”

“Safe,” one elf agrees.

“And unharmed?”

“Safe,” the same elf says again, its voice light and sweet and completely at odds with the way the two of them are staring at Scott and Stiles. Stiles shifts from foot to foot, his body taut with anxiety. “Pretty boys.”

“Pretty _boy_ ,” the other elf argues, and with a blur of speed is suddenly in front of Scott, grinning at him with sharp, vicious teeth. “And pretty _beast_.”

Before either of them can react, two things happen; one of the elves turns tail and speeds away, cackling loudly as it disappears further into the forest. The other strikes Scott across the face with a strength that Stiles can now see the stories were definitely right to stress. Its hand makes an almighty crack as it collides with Scott’s cheek, and the other tears viciously at his eyes with sharp claws as it shoves Scott to the ground. Scott roars in pain as blood flows down his face and Stiles can see his teeth lengthening and body shifting as he changes, but before he can shove the thing off him it buries its teeth down to the gum in Scott's shoulder.

Stiles reacts without thinking; he swings his iron bar in trembling hands and catches the elf on the back of the head as hard as he can. The creatures lets go of Scott with an inhuman howl and falls back clutching at its head, greasy hair suddenly matted with ink-black blood. Stiles freezes, eyes wide when he realises the elf has a bloody chunk of Scott’s shoulder in its teeth, but pulls himself together as the creature scrambles snarling onto its feet. It is on him before he can breathe, claws scrabbling at his skin through his thick jacket as he thumps to the floor with a yelp, but instead of trying to pry it off him he launches desperately into the incantation he memorised.

To his astonishment, it _works_ ; the elf freezes, letting out a blood-curdling scream of pain as Stiles chants. To his relief Scott already seems to be healing as he struggles to his feet, wiping blood from his eyes, but he’s still wincing and cringing in pain. Still, it seems to take him no real physical effort to draw back the iron bar and slam it into the elf’s skull with a roar. The forest echoes with the sound of it and the elf’s dying screech. It crumples on top of him, the same sticky blood gushing from the wound in its skull. Scott drags Stiles upright and as they watch, the elf’s body begins to dissolve.

“Gross,” Stiles pants. “Elves are awful and wrong.”

“One down, one to go,” murmurs Scott, his irises yellow. He sniffs at the air and sets off in a run, with Stiles at his heels.

The remaining creature leads them on a chase through the forest. Stiles is glad the elves split up - he’s not sure they could have taken both at once, not with the way he and Scott went down so easily - but he could do without the sprint through an icy forest. The ground is sodden and wet with snow, and dangerously slippery in places. Again and again both Scott and Stiles fall, neither willing to stay down for long even when they smash into trees or stumble hard over rocks. The elf mocks them throughout as they struggle to run it down, taunting them with inhuman shrieks that seem to be coming from all around and cackling as they flinch. Stiles is pretty sure it’s playing with them like they’re fun, shiny toys.

Finally, they emerge in a clearing; the same clearing where the kid had disappeared, Stiles realises as he pants and takes in their surroundings. The reason his footprints seemed to stop abruptly becomes clear immediately; a strong wind is blowing from the middle of the clearing, swirling snow in freezing circles around…Stiles blinks. The other side of the clearing looks as if somebody has plonked a completely different world down into the forest. Stiles shivers, his warm jacket suddenly inadequate against the gale that blusters from…it’s a portal, it _must_ be a portal, into wherever the elves actually came from. Stiles can see a dark sky on the other side of it, studded with unfamiliar stars and mountains of ice.

And the elf is _just about to go through_.

Scott snarls in fury, hefts the bar in his hands and throws it desperately, as hard as he can. To Stiles’ relief it slams into the creature’s back and it hits the ground with a shriek of rage. Scott is on him before it can get up. “Where’s the kid?!” The elf screeches, but looks between them and the portal. Stiles almost swallows his tongue with Scott’s next words. “Fine. Take me to him.”

“Are you crazy?” he demands, jittering in the freezing air rushing around them. “We don’t even know where that leads!”

“Do you really think we can trust it to bring him back?” Scott says, with a helpless shrug of his shoulders. Stiles sighs, and has to shake his head. 

“No? But,” he says, and hesitates. He hovers in front of Scott, his pulse thrumming in his own ears. “I’m coming too.”

“No, you’re not,” Scott says immediately. “You’re staying here.”

“But - ”

“ - no. I need you here in case we need backup. If I don’t come back in five minutes, call Derek, okay? Call everyone you can.”

“Fine, okay, I‘ll work the switchboard,” Stiles agrees, frustrated and sick with panic. “But what if it’s worse through there? What if there’s more of them?”

Scott‘s eyes are worried, but his voice is firm. “I don’t have a choice.”

Stiles can’t argue with that. Not with the anguished face of the kid’s mother so clear in his mind. He swallows, and for a brief second clings tightly to Scott in a desperate embrace. “Just…be careful,” he manages past the sudden tightness in his throat. Scott nods, eyes suddenly tracking over him, before he turns away.

His heart hammers as Scott marches out of sight into another land, with the elf's slim wrist clasped in one clawed hand, and the iron bar readied in the other. Stiles holds his breath as he waits for Scott to return.

Eventually, he’s forced to exhale or expire, and Scott still isn’t back. His heart sinks. “Scott?” he calls, his voice tremulous as he fishes his phone from his pocket. He whines when there’s no reply, and edges towards the portal. “I really don’t want to have to come in there after you, buddy! Believe me,” he whimpers, but squares his jaw when he gets no response, already dialling Derek‘s number as be approaches. “Okay, Scott, you - you asked for it, I’m coming in!”

He takes one determined step closer to the portal, when suddenly it begins to shrink. “Whoa! No!” he cries, and launches himself forwards in a run. Which means he’s running as fast as he can when he collides with Scott, who stumbles through with a curly-headed boy held against his hip. They hit the deck and watch wide-eyed as the portal shrinks into nothing, leaving the clearing unnervingly still.

“Y’okay?” Stiles groans as he turns his eyes to Scott.

“Yeah. I think so,” Scott mutters they scramble to their feet. He’s covered in blood; some of it his own, some of it the dark, noxious blood of the elves. The kid seems stunned as it cuddles into him, shivering and crying to itself. Stiles pulls off his jacket and wraps it around the kid, murmuring soothingly to him as he whimpers. Scott strokes his hair numbly as he swallows hard. “It decided it wanted to keep me.”

“Yeah? Did you - like the other one?” Stiles asks, mindful of the child. Scott nods, and that’s that.

***

Scott is pretty sure nobody buys their story of ‘we were just on a walk in the forest and we happened to find him, honest’ but, given that they _found a missing child_ , nobody pushes too hard for the truth. Stiles’ dad in particular seems unwilling to accept that they just felt like embarking on a snowy hike and were able to find the lost kid when every cop in the state had failed to do so, but in the face of Stiles’ obvious exhaustion and pretty constant shivering, he lets it drop. For now, anyway. Scott thinks they are inching closer and closer to just giving in and telling him _everything_. Frankly, if it takes some of the pressure off Stiles’ shoulders, Scott’s all in favour of it.

His mom arrives at the police station just minutes after Stiles‘ dad calls her, wide-eyed and clearly aware something more than a snowy jog has gone on. She knows the kid’s mom, though, and her determination to tear him a new asshole fades when she’s drawn into an embrace by the weeping woman and told that her son is an angel, an honest to god _angel_. She scruffs a hand through his hair and squeezes him tight when she gets hold of him, and just sighs at his general coating of blood and dirt.

“You know you’re not fooling anyone, right?“ she asks as she drives him home. “The two of you, with your little blizzard run? Yeah, I‘m not falling for that.”

“I know,” he admits. She sighs, and softens.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, because it’s true enough. He’s almost certain he’s going to have nightmares about this for awhile, but physically, he’s fine. Not a scratch on him. His mom nods.

“And Stiles?”

“He’s…” Stiles had been limping by the time they left the forest, wincing with each step. Scott thinks back to the way he had been once they were safe, sitting in the station with his dad’s coat around his shivering shoulders, his movements stiff and pained. He had rested his head on Scott’s shoulder eventually, his eyes closing with exhaustion as one arm pressed around Scott‘s waist. Scott sighs. “He’s okay, I guess?”

“You guess?” his mom asks, and she raises an eyebrow as she pulls into their drive. “Is there anything we can do to help him?”

“No, not you,” he murmurs, before an idea strikes. He smiles. “But I think maybe _I_ can.”

He stinks, so he takes a quick shower, before poking through the bathroom cupboard and finding what he needs; a solid massage bar. He can’t help but grin nervously to himself as he sticks it in the pocket of his jacket and jogs over to Stiles’ house. His dad’s car is gone, which is kind of a relief, given what he’s considering. 

“Stiles?” he calls as he lets himself into the house. He wouldn’t have heard the answering grunt if it wasn’t for awesome werewolf hearing. Scott bounds upstairs and opens the door to Stiles’ room.

Stiles has managed to get changed, at least, because his dirty, wet clothes are lying forlornly on the floor, and Scott can smell the mingled scents of soap and shampoo on his clean skin, so Stiles must have showered. It looks like step three in his plan was ‘faceplant on top of his bed’ because that’s how Scott finds him. 

He shuts the door behind himself with a click. “Hey. You awake?”

“Mmm,” Stiles grumbles. He shifts just enough to aim one amber eye up at Scott. There’s an angry bruise blooming around it. Scott sighs, and crouches by his bed to thumb his bruised skin tenderly. Stiles raises his eyebrow in surprise, but doesn’t move away. Scott relaxes just a little, and lets himself stroke Stiles’ hair.

“You should be asleep. I bet your dad told you to,” he says softly. Stiles grunts in return.

“He did, but I can‘t.”

“I know you want to update the bestiary,” Scott says with a frown, “But can’t that wait until tomorrow? Sleep first.”

“You over-estimate my enthusiasm for writing about the monsters that just tried to kill me,” Stiles laughs, his voice rough. “I mean I physically _can’t sleep_. Everywhere aches. I’m gonna have some pretty epic bruises tomorrow.”

“You’ve got some already,” Scott murmurs, casting shameless eyes over Stiles. Bare except for his boxers, Scott can see a million vivid bruises already covering his pale skin, with occasional angry red grazes between them to provide some excitement. He sighs, guilt flooding over him. “Stiles, you look like - ”

“ - like we ran through a forest, in the snow, and fell over a _lot_ , and killed the crap out of some not-at-all-jolly elves?” Stiles snorts, and burrows his face into the covers again. “We did, dude. This is what we get.”

“What _you_ get,” Scott sighs, and rests a hand on Stiles’ back, fingers stroking his warm skin. Stiles’ sharp intake of breath is unmistakable. “I’m healed already, but you…you’re still hurt. It’s not fair. You did everything I did.”

“I didn‘t actually do any of the killing.”

“No, but you would, if you had to,” Scott argues. “You held it down while I finished it off. We did it together! But I don’t even feel like I was working out, y‘know? I‘m fine. And you‘re….”

“And I’m not a werewolf,” Stiles mumbles. “I don’t grow claws or lose my mind every full moon. It balances. I‘d rather be kind of hurt and still human, Scott,” he promises, his voice soft, and Scott can’t help but smile and rest his chin on Stiles’ bare shoulder. 

“It’s still not fair.” He nuzzles at Stiles’ fuzz of hair as he murmurs to him, Stiles‘ soft breathing a welcome balm to his nerves. He takes a deep breath. He was sure about this while he was running over, but now he‘s here…“I actually have an idea, to help you sleep.”

“Hit me,” Stiles murmurs in return. He sounds exhausted. “In a completely non-literal way.”

Scott hesitates, wondering how best to explain. He rests his cheek against Stiles’ shoulder and breathes in the scent of his skin, warm and familiar and slightly spicy. With a relieved smile he closes his eyes, feeling himself relax as Stiles‘ scent floods his senses. He has to try. “Whenever my mom has a really hard shift -”

“ - the comparison to your mom isn’t promising,” Stiles interrupts with a deep chuckle. He shifts, wincing slightly, and Scott feels his arm slide over Scott‘s shoulder comfortably. “But go on.”

“So sometimes she gets home and her legs are aching, right? And sometimes if she has a hot shower, that makes her feel better,” Scott says. Stiles shifts, turning to peer at him through barely-opened eyes.

“Already tried. Still achey.”

“And then she tries painkillers - ”

“ - I’ve taken so many I should be rattling.”

“And if they don’t work,” Scott presses on patiently, “She gives herself a massage.” He pulls the little massage bar out of his pocket, rattling it in the tin.

Stiles blinks. “You want me to give myself a massage?”

“No.”

“You want _your mom_ to give me a massage?”

“No! Jeez, Stiles, for somebody so smart, you‘re kinda dumb,” Scott groans. “Me! I… _I_ want to give you a massage.”

Stiles stares at him for awhile. Scott shifts, suddenly unsure. Maybe he had misread this. Maybe he was wrong about _them_. He’s just beginning to scramble back when Stiles smiles warmly at him. “Oh. Okay, then. Yes, please?” Scott grins in return, the sudden tension in him easing.

“I really hoped you’d say yes.”

“When do I ever say no to you?” Stiles murmurs, and Scott can’t help leaning closer to him, chuckling with his lips brushing Stiles’ ear. He feels Stiles shiver beneath him, hears the jump of his pulse and smells the sudden spike in his arousal. 

Maybe it should feel awkward, but for all Stiles and Scott have practically embodied the concept of awkwardness over the years, the two of them have never felt that way together. This just feels…right.

Scott scrambles upright, strips his sweater off, kicks off his sneakers, and straddles Stiles’ bare thighs. “Hey, do you actually know how to do massages?” Stiles asks. Scott shrugs as he warms the sweet-smelling bar between his hands until they’re slippery.

“It’s basically just…like rubbing it better, right?”

“I’d argue on behalf of outraged masseuses everywhere,” Stiles groans, “But rubbing it better sounds pretty fabulous right now.”

Scott takes a deep breath before leaning forward and settling his hands on Stiles’ aching shoulders. He has to smile at how natural it feels. He fans his fingers over his tense flesh and strokes, curiously, before repeating the action with a little more pressure. Stiles whimpers and Scott freezes. “Does that hurt?”

“Kind of? But it feels kind of good, too. Kind of _really_ good. It smells nice. Warm,” he murmurs, and Scott smiles as he kneads at his muscles more firmly. He knows damn well that Stiles isn’t some delicate flower. He’s kept pace with Scott every step of the way.

Scott doesn’t rush. Between the two of them he’s always been the most patient, balancing Stiles’ restless energy with his own placid nature, and he takes advantage of this as he works his hands slowly over Stiles’ aching body. He focuses on his back for awhile, thinking of every time Stiles hit the ground in the forest, and pours his concern into his hands as they work to loosen his shoulder muscles, rub gently at his neck, and knead down his spine. By the time he moves onto his arms, Scott is grinning fondly with the relieved moans Stiles is producing.

“Does it feel nice?” he whispers, and laughs when Stiles groans in response as both hands stroke down his left arm in one long motion. “Is that a yes?”

“You know it’s a yes, do you really need me to say?” Stiles mumbles. He sounds half-asleep, and dozy, and there‘s no mistaking the heated scent of arousal flooding from him. Scott’s half-hard himself, and he can’t resist leaning close as he massages to breathe him in. He only stiffens further when Stiles moans suddenly, his entire body arching as Scott digs his thumbs gently into the palm of his hand. “Oh my god, okay, _yes_ , it’s definitely a yes.”

Scott resists the urge to tease him. Stiles sounds _adorable_.

He remains silent as he moves down Stiles’ body, listening to the sound of his breathing as it deepens, his heartbeat pounding in Scott‘s ears. His fingers clutch at the sheets when Scott initially rubs at his thighs, and a pained gasp escapes him, but Scott just shushes him soothingly and lightens his touch until he feels Stiles melt beneath him once more. “That’s good, relax,” he murmurs and, without quite expecting it from himself, he leans close to press a kiss to the small of Stiles’ back. He listens to Stiles’ breath catch, before a sleepy chuckle comes from him.

“You think you’re cute, don‘t you.”

“ _You_ think I’m cute,” Scott grins, and lets his thumbs dig into the soles of Stiles’ feet. He moans and his legs spread, just a little.

“I’ve always thought you were cute, moron,” he murmurs fondly, and Scott can’t resist pressing another kiss to the soft skin at the back of his knee. Stiles squirms, his skin flushed as Scott lets his lips work their way up his thigh while he crawls up the length of his body. He spreads himself over Stiles, caging his body with his own and resting his head atop Stiles’ shoulder with a soft kiss. “Scott,” he whines through a blush, and Scott shushes him softly as he presses a kiss to the back of Stiles‘ neck.

“It’s okay.”

“But I’m - ”

“ - I know,” he murmurs, and with a deep breath he slides a hand beneath their bodies, snaking under Stiles’ hips and brushing over his stiff cock through his boxers. Stiles moans and jerks into his touch.

“Sorry, crap, _sorry_ , I shouldn’t - ” he begins, and chokes off as Scott guides his hand into his underwear and strokes his firm dick gently.

“Stiles,” he laughs softly, lips brushing Stiles’ ear, “You have _nothing_ to be sorry about. Or if you do, then I should apologise, too,” he murmurs, and rocks his own stiff prick against the curve of his backside pointedly. Stiles gasps, but it soon degenerates into a dizzy giggle.

“Oh. Really? I didn’t think…”

“You have a habit of doubting your attractiveness,” Scott chuckles, and presses a kiss against his cheek. “Trust me, okay?”

“Dude, always,” Stiles murmurs, and Scott feels his heart surge. 

All he wants to do is make sure Stiles feels better. He ignores the insistent press of his own dick and focuses completely on Stiles; on the way his hips find a stuttering rhythm as they rock beneath him, the glide of slick, velvety flesh into his hand, the way his breath catches each time Scott thumbs the leaking head of his prick. Scott drinks it in, trying to fix it in his memory, to learn what Stiles likes and what makes the scent of his lust spike so intoxicatingly.

When he spills into Scott‘s hand, Scott finds himself growling, actually _growling_ in satisfaction against his neck. Stiles laughs tiredly. “Is that a compliment, or should I be running for my life? ‘Cause dude, no. No running is happening right now. You officially wore me out. Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Welcome,” Scott manages in return, breathing deeply, before he gives into temptation; he slides his hand free from Stiles’ boxers and licks his palm clean, groaning at the taste of Stiles on his tongue.

Stiles blinks. “Is that - are you - really?”

“Sorry,” Scott mumbles, and it’s Stiles’ turn to laugh.

“No apology required, oh my god. That is the _hottest_.” Tired limbs struggle beneath him and Scott props himself up long enough for Stiles to roll over, his eyes half-lidded and his smile easy as he beckons Scott closer.

He can’t resist. Doesn’t want to. Scott grins his goofiest grin and settles over him once more. Stiles leans up to press their lips together but Scott leans away with a soft noise of confusion. “You want our first official kiss to taste of your come?”

“I’m more concerned with the ‘first official kiss’ part of that sentence, but…I’ll be honest, it’s not like I don’t know exactly what I taste like,” Stiles admits, and Scott laughs as their lips meet softly. It’s kind of sloppy, and their teeth bump a little, and they both get the giggles when their noses collide. It’s pretty much perfect.

Scott presses one more soft peck to his mouth before nosing at Stiles’ throat, smiling when he bares it with a laugh. “Feeling better?” he murmurs, lips brushing the delicate skin of his throat.

Stiles nods and squirms comfortably beneath him. “Mmhmm. Not so much like I’m gonna break. Or already _broke_. Plus my best friend just gave me a hand job and took my v-card and is actually hard in his pants because of me, so… I‘m going to count today as a win.”

“Good,” Scott whispers in return, and leans up to nuzzle their noses together. “Now sleep.”

“But,” Stiles protests, and his hand wriggles between them to brush over the firm press of Scott’s dick. “You haven‘t - I want to - ”

“ - tomorrow,” he promises, and grins at Stiles’ tired, petulant pout. “Tomorrow, I promise. Right now I want you to sleep more than I want to come.”

“Really?”

Scott shrugs, and gives Stiles a lopsided grin. “It’s really, really close between them, I promise, and I don’t think I will _ever_ make that choice again, but yeah. You need to sleep, man.”

“Okay. But tomorrow it‘s my turn to taste you, okay?” Stiles murmurs, and leans up to press a light peck of a kiss to Scott’s lips. Scott grins, his heart singing.

“ _Definitely_ okay.” He smiles and slides off the bed, meaning to head home, but Stiles drags himself upright suddenly. 

“Wait! Stay?”

“What?” Scott blinks, and Stiles aims a beautiful, fragile smile at him.

“Stay. Please?” he asks, and throws the covers open invitingly. “You don’t have to go. You _never_ have to go.”

Scott thinks of the snow, still stubbornly clinging to the ground, even with its creators dead. He thinks of the freezing air, of how he’ll have to run home to stay warm, and how warm and settled he already is. Most of all, he thinks of Stiles, loose-limbed and warm and his eyes at their most pleading.

Scott stays.


End file.
